


life, upheaved

by taywen



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fugue Feast in July, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 11:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2189832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Their meeting runs late, the conversation meandering to unrelated topics and absent reminiscence. About an hour before the evening meal, Martin dismisses the Overseers who accompanied him to Havelock's office with the assurance that the Admiral is a most trustworthy man.</i>
</p><p>Written for the Dishonored Secret Santa prompt, "(Havelock/Martin) filthy pwp please". In a world where the Loyalists don't betray and poison Corvo, Havelock and Martin reach an- agreement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	life, upheaved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whitenoiseghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitenoiseghost/gifts).



> still late, still no excuses
> 
> I don't think it got really filthy but I tried haha

Their meeting runs late, the conversation meandering to unrelated topics and absent reminiscence. About an hour before the evening meal, Martin dismisses the Overseers who accompanied him to Havelock's office with the assurance that the Admiral is a most trustworthy man.

Of all the Loyalists, Martin has the most reason to trust Havelock, it's true- but not because Havelock is trustworthy. Rather, they know enough of each other's secrets and hidden weaknesses that betraying the other is- unthinkable. Neither of them are noble - or foolish - enough to take a fall without dragging their counterpart down with them.

Not that there's any reason to do so. Emily sits on the throne, Corvo reinstated at her side, Havelock has reassumed command of the Navy, Martin heads the Abbey and Pendleton leads Parliament; according to Sokolov's latest report he and Piero are close to a breakthrough on a cure for the plague. Dunwall is as stable as it can be with a child on the throne, and her Loyalists do everything in their power to ensure it remains that way.

It doesn't leave them much time to themselves, which usually suits Havelock just fine: he'd had enough of sitting around and waiting for schemes to come to fruition in the months after his disgrace. All the same, he and Martin had reached an- understanding of sorts during that time, consisting of moments stolen after hours of plotting and Havelock finds he does miss that.

For his part, Martin acts unaffected. Havelock does the same, though at times he finds himself curbing the impulse to brace a hand on Martin's hip or allow a shoulder clap to linger too long. He does not need Martin to tell him that discretion is necessary.

He'd entertained the thought that their arrangement was over, actually, as unwelcome as it would be; Havelock's practical enough to concede that anything that went beyond professional boundaries was a risk. But Martin's been watching him intently all evening, and he certainly doesn't seem to be in a hurry to leave.

The smirk Martin gives him when Havelock suggests they relocate to his quarters for a late meal is positively wicked, cementing Havelock's suspicions.

The walk from his office to his quarters takes less than five minutes but Havelock finds himself impatient; he has to slow his pace several times, and the amused look Martin gives him each time doesn't help matters.

Havelock pins Martin against the door the second it clicks shut, insinuating a leg between his thighs. Martin's half-hard already, pressing insistently against him. He's still wearing that damnable smirk, even as he opens his mouth to utter something undoubtedly smug and cutting- but Havelock isn't interested in hearing it so he leans down and kisses Martin quiet.

Martin relaxes, a shaky exhale escaping him before he bites, hard enough to draw blood. Havelock jerks back, only to press in again, jarring Martin against the door. He laughs breathlessly, arching up to kiss Havelock once more. He curves a hand around the back of Havelock's head, tangling his fingers in the short strands.

Havelock groans and presses closer, groping at the fastenings of Martin's coat; his fingers slip over the catches and he makes a sound of frustration. He bites Martin back when the man chuckles into his mouth, not letting up at all.

A knock at the door interrupts them and Havelock steps back immediately, frowning.

"What is it?" His voice is rougher than usual and he clears his throat.

"Your meal, Admiral," comes the muffled reply; the serving girl is obviously nervous.

His face feels flushed and Martin had mussed his hair earlier, damn the man. He's smirking at Havelock now as he saunters over to the water closet, leaving Havelock to fumble his uniform to rights and hope that his recent distraction isn't readily obvious. He licks the blood from his lip, then smoothes a hand down his coat, trying to calm his breathing.

He opens the door to admit the servant before she can knock again; she keeps her eyes averted as she sets the meal out and doesn't linger when Havelock curtly dismisses her.

Martin emerges from the bathroom looking far too put together, apart a button or two left purposely undone at his collar, exposing the pale lines of his neck. Havelock wants to leave a mark there, high on his throat where the collar won't hide it.

To distract himself from the thought, Havelock clears his throat and gestures at the table. "Shall we?"

Martin arches an eyebrow at him but takes the seat opposite without protest. The table's not much larger than those back at the Hound Pits; it's meant for more singular meals than this. When Havelock's foot bumps Martin's under the table, he draws it back immediately, reminded once again of the lack of space.

The first bit of the meal passes in harmless small talk, meaningless banter that irritates Havelock more than it usually would. He almost chokes when Martin strokes a foot up his calf, the touch more startling than anything; it registers as mere pressure through the leather of his boot.

Martin tilts his head. "Is something wrong, Admiral?" His tone is solicitous, belying the smirk that Havelock can see lurking at the corners of his mouth.

Havelock clears his throat, trying to ignore Martin as he repeats the motion. "I think we can dispense with titles, Martin. This is hardly-" His breath hitches when Martin leans forward under the pretense of picking up the salt and simultaneously strokes his foot higher; he's managed to somehow slip off his boot without Havelock noticing, and the touch is almost unbearably intimate with only a few layers of clothes between them. "-an official matter," he finishes as Martin settles back, a smug expression on his face.

"Quite," Martin says, idly salting what remains of his meal. "I haven't had anything besides the hagfish or whale meat the Abbey provides its Overseers for a while now; this salmon is a nice change."

Havelock grits his teeth at the abrupt return to small talk, though he tries (with limited success) not to let his aggravation show. Martin knows exactly what he's doing, of course, and Havelock doesn't want to give him the satisfaction- at least not in this manner.

"Your dedication to the Strictures is admirable," Havelock says, which earns him a wry chuckle. "I hope you'll continue to avoid the excesses that your predecessor enjoyed."

"It would take an exceptional man to indulge to such an extent," Martin says.

"That's one word for it," Havelock agrees.

Silence falls between them as they finish the rest of the meal. Havelock drains what's left of his wine, but just as he's considering suggesting they move elsewhere, Martin pours himself another glass, emptying the bottle.

There's that sly expression on his face again. Havelock drums his fingers against the table, annoyed, until Martin darts an amused glance at them. That he stills the motion immediately only serves to irritate Havelock further, and he pushes back from the table abruptly, muttering some excuse as he goes to the washroom.

When Havelock emerges from the bathroom, the main area of his quarters is deserted. He doubts that Martin would have left without a word, but all the same he finds himself relaxing when he goes into his bedroom and finds Martin reclined on his bed, sipping at his wine. He's discarded his coat and harness, and the black vest beneath, leaving him in only so Havelock shrugs out of his own uniform coat, laying it rather carelessly over the desk chair.

"You kept me waiting long enough," Martin comments as Havelock strips off his boots which- is just absurd, but Havelock's not going to let that distract him from his task. Martin arches an eyebrow when Havelock keeps going, shedding his shirt and trousers and socks, but he sets his wine aside and puts his hands to the buttons of his own shirt with gratifying alacrity.

" _I_ kept you waiting?" Havelock can't help but say anyway, tugging Martin's trousers down after the man unbuttons them.

"Yes," Martin says, catching his wrist. He tugs, though not hard enough to overbalance Havelock. "Hurry up and get over here. I don't have all night."

"Am I keeping you from something?" Havelock asks blandly, but he climbs onto the bed beside Martin all the same.

"Getting off before I die of old age," Martin says cuttingly, but he breaks off with a gasp when Havelock palms his dick. His cheeks are already beginning to flush, though his voice remains firm when he says, " _Finally_."

"I don't want to hear that from you," Havelock says roughly, moving to straddle Martin's hips. He resists for a moment before yielding when Martin curls a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him down for a kiss.

Martin tastes of wine, breathy moans catching in his throat when Havelock chases the flavour with his tongue. Havelock growls when Martin worries at the cut he'd made earlier and presses down, pinning Martin to the bed. Martin groans when he leans back, makes a wordless sound of protest when Havelock kneels up, keeping the Overseer down with a hand on his chest.

"Will you get on with it," Martin hisses.

Havelock grins at him and rummages briefly in the bedside table before producing the oil he's looking for. He's had it on hand for almost as long as he's been Admiral (for the second time) which really speaks more for how much he was over this arrangement with Martin, no matter what Havelock told himself.

Martin exhales a shuddering breath, his pale irises nearly swallowed by pupil. "Fuck," he says, the expletive bleeding into the brogue that he usually takes pains to hide.

"If you have time for this," Havelock says as blandly as he can manage.

"I won't if you keep stalling," Martin says. He groans when Havelock drags his hand down his chest, presses his palm against the hard length of Martin's dick. Martin tries to arch into the touch and Havelock pulls his hand away, grinning at the noise Martin makes then.

"I don't think you're going anywhere," Havelock says. He jerks the vial of oil out of reach when Martin grabs for it, his earlier, smug composure in tatters; frustration is written plainly across his features. It's exhilarating to see that Martin is as affected by Havelock as he is by Martin, but it only makes Havelock want more.

"Havelock," Martin growls.

"Would you rather do it yourself?" He means it teasingly, but the thought of watching Martin opening himself up with his clever fingers is- not unappealing, if the surge of heat in his belly is any indication.

Martin's breath stutters before he snaps, "I don't _care_ , just do something."

Havelock obliges him, shifting to kneel between Martin's spread legs. He slicks his fingers and sets the oil aside, then hooks his free hand under Martin's knee and lifts, pressing him open. Martin squirms impatiently when Havelock just strokes the tip of his one finger over his hole again and again, his own hands fisted in the sheets.

"Havelock," Martin hisses, getting his elbows under himself so he can raise his head and glare.

He eases a finger into Martin, then two, working him open faster than he'd intended to- but Martin's pleas become increasingly desperate, his accent bleeding into the words as he arches beneath Havelock. He's gasping shallowly by the time Havelock has four fingers in him, his dick leaking onto his stomach.

Havelock rubs his thumb over Martin's stretched rim, teasingly edges the tip inside when Martin whines and presses back against him. "If we had more time I'm sure I could get you to take my fist," Havelock says.

"Fuck," Martin says dazedly. "Fuck, I want you inside me-"

Havelock pulls his fingers out and urges Martin up onto his hands and knees as he smears oil over his dick. He lines the head of his dick up against Martin's hole, then pauses. He can't say he wouldn't be disappointed, but if Martin's changed his mind-

"Just _do it_ ," Martin snarls, and Havelock pushes in immediately. "Spirits!" Martin curses, his body clenching against the intrusion; even with four fingers, it's not an easy fit. Havelock isn't small by any means, and he goes slowly, his body drawn taut over Martin's. The Overseer keeps up a steady stream of curses, some of which Havelock hasn't even heard before; he wonders, sometimes, about Martin's past, but the thought flies from his mind as quickly as it comes now.

They're both panting raggedly by the time Havelock's seated fully; he presses his forehead against Martin's shoulder and reaches around to wrap his still-slick hand around Martin's flagging arousal.

Martin rocks into his hand, then back against Havelock's dick. "Move, already," he orders, curling his fingers between Havelock's.

With a reluctance that privately surprises him, Havelock releases him and curves both hands around Martin's hips, tightly. He pulls out almost entirely, then thrusts back in, shifting his angle each time until Martin cries out and shudders beneath him. Havelock grins and fucks into him forcefully, hitting that spot again and again. There'll be bruises later but Havelock doesn't care and Martin's swearing at him to fuck him _harder_ , his own hand working furiously over his dick while the other braces him against the wall.

"Are you close?" Havelock asks, smacks him on the ass when Martin doesn't respond immediately.

"Fuck, yes," Martin says, jerking beneath him. He makes the best anguished noise when Havelock grabs his wrist and twists it behind his back. "What the fu-" Martin's snarl fades into a hoarse cry as Havelock thrusts into him hard enough to make the bed creak and groan alarmingly, the heavy frame rattling against the wall. He presses his face into the pillow to muffle his cries.

"No one's going to hear," Havelock says, not letting up at all. Martin turns his head enough to glare at Havelock over his shoulder, his lips pressed stubbornly shut. Havelock grins, thrusts in hard enough that the entire bed scrapes across the floor. " _Martin_ ," he groans loudly, not entirely for show.

"Fuck you," Martin hisses. His back is covered in a sheen of sweat, crossed with scars that Havelock wouldn't have expected an Overseer to sport; then again, Martin is hardly a typical Overseer. Havelock leans down and drags his tongue over the most intriguing, what looks like a slash from a blade that goes from his shoulder to the middle of his spine. Havelock scrapes his teeth over it when Martin makes a soft sound, grins when Martin curses and his knees give out. He rocks his hips against the mattress as Havelock thrusts into him.

"Stop that," Havelock says, grabbing his hips and pulling him back up.

Martin makes a noise close to a sob. "Please," Martin says, even as he does as he's told. His knees give out again and Havelock makes a sound of frustration, pulls out and flips him over, hooking Martin's leg over his shoulder as he pulls Martin into his lap. He pauses, the head of his cock just breaching Martin's hole, watches with no small amount of lust as Martin braces against the wall and tries to push back onto his cock. Havelock presses his other leg open, pinning him against the bed with it.

Martin's a wreck: the mess of sweat and come on his stomach, body straining from the unnatural position Havelock's forced him into; his eyes are dark, lips red and shining as he says, "Farley, please," in a low, ruined voice.

Havelock pushes back in, Martin's body yielding perfectly before him. "Can you come just from this?" Havelock asks, his voice ragged from panting.

Martin laughs, the sound tinged with hysteria and desperation. "I don't _know_ , why won't you just touch me?" he demands, shifting restlessly beneath him.

"It was my understanding you Overseers liked- denial," Havelock says, thrusting in hard enough that Martin cries out, arching; it almost drowns out the unsteady banging of the bed frame against the wall.

"Don't you dare," Martin hisses, raising his head to glare at him. "Don't you fucking _dare_ -"

Havelock huffs a laugh, fumbles one handed for the oil. He dumps it over Martin's cock and stomach, some of the mixture leaking onto the sheets; Havelock finds he doesn't particularly care about that now.

Martin sobs when he gets a hand around his cock. "Yes, yes, fuck-" Martin's voice cracks, his arousal pulsing in Havelock's grasp. "Farley-" His words dissolves into a shout when Havelock drags his thumb over the head of his cock on the upstroke and he comes hard all over his chest and stomach.

Havelock groans as Martin clenches around him, the tight heat enough to send him over the edge as well. He has just the presence of mind to slump onto the bed beside Martin rather on the man himself, and they lie there, not quite touching, for some time. Martin finds something to clean himself off with - Havelock's shirt; he'd be more annoyed about that if he wasn't so sated - then settles back on the bed with a contented sigh.

Havelock rouses from his doze sometime later when Martin sits up, and he's got an arm around Martin's waist before he fully thinks it through.

Martin blinks down at him, open surprise obvious in his face before he tucks it away behind a smirk. "Should I stay, then?" he asks, but he can't manage his usual haughty tone; his voice is too hoarse, and there's something else in it that Havelock can't decipher.

"If you want," he says gruffly, torn between withdrawing the damning embrace and potentially screwing up- whatever this is. He leaves his arm where it is.

Martin tilts his head, appraising, then eases back down. He doesn't protest when Havelock moves closer, pressing flush to Martin's side. "I suppose I don't have any business until noon tomorrow," he says, tucking his arm over Havelock's. "It's too late to head back to Holger Square now."

Havelock doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a close thing.

 


End file.
